


You're On My List

by louciferish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dancing, Drinking, Drunk Katsuki Yuuri, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Kissing, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sochi 2014 Winter Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25770871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: The Sochi Olympics have just ended. Victor is drunk, Chris is irritated, and a young man from Japan they haven't met is both very drunk andexceedinglyfriendly.AKA the ficlet about how Yuuri got drunk and kissed everyone at a 2014 Winter Olympics afterparty.
Relationships: Christophe Giacometti & Katsuki Yuuri & Victor Nikiforov, Christophe Giacometti & Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 17
Kudos: 97





	You're On My List

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Baph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baph/gifts).



> [Never Forget Your First](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25572421) had a drabble in it that mentions Yuuri drunkenly kissing Victor for the first time (as well as many other boys) after the Sochi Olys.
> 
> After posting it, I was chatting with Baph and off-handedly suggested that maybe that same incident was the first time Chris met Yuuri. That spawned... quite the little headcanon. And this.

_”Stick close by me in Sochi,” Victor had said. “I’ll show you all the best places. And I’ll keep you out of trouble. It’s a whole different universe from World’s.”_

_Sometimes Victor would look at Chris like he was still fifteen and cherubic, and it made Chris want to trip him as they walked together. But it **would** be his first Olympics, and he was old enough and bright enough to know that having a sort of mentor and guide for the week… well, it couldn’t hurt._

Remembering his naivety in that moment, Chris snorts hard enough that the air makes ripples on the surface of his vodka tonic. A _mentor_. God, he was stupid. 

An arm’s length away, Victor is dancing, swaying just out of time with the awful song the DJ’s spinning, his arms draped over the shoulders of some awful, curly-haired American _skier_ who probably doesn’t know an axel from a lutz. 

There are handprints in the red paint that splatters the walls of the nightclub, not intentionally, but put there by careless dancers who didn’t realize how quickly this place -- a cafe of some sort before the Olympics, judging by the tiny counter at the back now serving as a DJ booth -- had transformed itself into catnip for celebratory athletes. Twenty brands of aftershave war with body odor for the dominant scent in the room, and the air is thick with sweat. The temperature in here must be well over 30 degrees, and it’s so oppressive that Chris finds himself looking for a window, even knowing it’s below freezing outside. 

As if the offbeat gyrations of Victor’s hips weren’t telling enough, the very fact that he’s dancing with some stranger to this awful, thumping _noise_ instead of lounging by the bar with Chris betrays how drunk he must be. Victor can hold his liquor. Usually, he doesn’t slip this far down the hole unless Chris is right there with him.

But tonight he’s got his head back and body twisted, the gold medal around his neck swinging like a pendulum as he moves, drunk on the power of winning as much as on the free shots other athletes keep buying him. 

Chris reaches for the medal against his own chest without thinking. It’s bronze this time, but that’s nothing to complain about. Cao Bin had captured silver, and at his age it’s likely Sochi will be his last Olympics. For Chris, it’s only the first, and if he can keep his knees, ankles, and back intact, he’ll be twenty-seven at PyeongChang -- older, for an athlete, but not impossible. Far from impossible. 

The music shifts, one shitty techno beat segueing into the next, and between the flashing lights Chris catches sight of one of the speed skating medalists pressing something bright pink into Victor’s open hand. Without hesitation, Victor throws his head back and swallows it down. Chris jabs his straw against the bottom of his glass. 

_Some mentor_. Chris should be the one out there dancing, living dangerously. Victor had promised to watch out for him, but where are they now? Victor, indulging his whims without a second thought, and Chris stuck in a corner playing drunk-minder to a two-time Olympic gold medalist in a terrible gay bar that shouldn’t even exist. 

Victor drapes his arms over the skier’s shoulders, and the ice in Chris’s chest cracks. 

He drops his drink onto the bar and crosses to Victor’s side, arm around his friend’s waist and tugging him away from his doubly-drunk suitor who can only stumble, confused, before latching onto the nearest unoccupied body.

“Ah, Christophe,” Victor yells. His mouth is wet, pressed to Chris’s cheek as he shouts to make himself heard over the music. His breath smells like strawberry candies and spoiled grapes. “Was I making you jealous?” He leans heavily into Chris, and Chris _knows_ it’s partly an act, a game, another instance of Victor playing up an image by pretending to be both drunker and flirtier than he truly is in public, but it fires another little stab of irritation through Chris’s limbs. 

“Do you want to dance with me?” Victor mouths over Chris’s ear, and there’s a bit -- just a slip -- of tongue in there.

Chris drops him. 

The fact that Victor doesn’t even stumble when he’s released, much less fall, betrays just how much of a joke this truly is, and somehow the fact that Victor isn’t _actually_ wasted makes it worse.

“What’s got you in such a bad mood?” Victor grumbles. His shirt is entirely unbuttoned, transparent and clinging to him from sweat, but he tugs at the ends of the sleeves as if his cufflinks need adjusting. “You should be celebrating, _medalist_.”

Chris folds his arms across his chest. “I want to go. I’m not having a good time.” Over Victor’s shoulder, he can see some type of disturbance unfolding in the crowd. There are a few shouts that carry over the music, and the wall of bodies shifts suddenly. He feels himself tense when Victor reaches for him.

“Of course you’re not! You haven’t stepped away from the bar at all.” Victor’s hand is firm on his arm, trying to tug him out onto the dance floor, but Chris only rocks on his feet, refusing to budge. 

“And whose fault is that?” Chris snaps. “Maybe if I didn’t have to _babysit_ a grown man--”

Victor’s blue eyes turn steely as he cuts Chris off, one finger raised in protest. “Listen, you--”

There’s a brief shout nearby, then loud laughter. That’s the only warning Chris gets before another man steps between them.

Unruly black hair, partly slicked back, tops a friendly face flush with the rich combination of heat and alcohol. The man is vaguely familiar, Japanese if Chris had to guess, and seems to have followed Victor’s fashion in fully unbuttoning his white shirt. He smiles brightly, squinting as if he’s trying to recognize their faces through his haze, though the unused glasses perched precariously atop his head might have something to do with that.

“Happy Olympics!” He proclaims in slurred, thick English, both fists raised in the air. “We did it!” 

Before Chris can agree or complain or ask him to leave, the man lurches forward and plants a kiss -- sloppy, damp, and distinctly fruit-flavored -- on Chris’s half-opened mouth. Then, he turns on his heel and does the same to Victor.

Chris’s jaw drops, but the guy has already moved on, planting another big kiss on Victor’s erstwhile dance partner, then _his_ new dance partner, and so on, happy and drunk and utterly indiscriminate. 

Victor raises two fingers to his lips, frowning slightly. “What-- Is he a skater?”

“Maybe.” Chris had thought he seemed familiar, but then, drunk and half-dressed in a poorly lit club wasn’t the circumstance under which Chris was used to recognizing his competitors. 

Victor is still frowning, but he drops his hand and shakes his head as if shooing something away. He blinks at Chris, and his tense shoulders droop. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been a very good friend tonight, have I? We can go back to housing, if that’s what you want.”

 _Is it?_ Chris had thought it was, but his sudden collision with the mysterious kisser has him rethinking that. _We did it!_ the stranger had said, and he’s _right_. They did do it. They’re god damned Olympians. A little switch flips in his mind. His attitude tonight has been all wrong. He’d been mad at Victor for having fun without him… Why hadn’t he simply joined in?

A slow smile spreads over his face as Chris reaches for Victor, looping their arms together. “You know what, _chere_? I think I’ve had a change of heart. Who celebrates their first Olympics by clinging to a bar? You and I, we should be _dancing_.” 

Victor’s face lights up and he tugs on the bronze medal at the center of Chris’s chest. “Oh yes,” he purrs and plucks at the buttons on Chris’s shirt. “Come on, then. Get this silly thing off. Let’s make all the other sports _jealous_.”


End file.
